


caught within a dream within a dream

by Steamcraft



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged mates?, Bonding, Dream Sex, F/M, Frottage, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steamcraft/pseuds/Steamcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one dreams in Beacon, until the Hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	caught within a dream within a dream

**Author's Note:**

> The elongated version of my Mating Games entry for Challenge One: And they lived happily ever after.

Once upon a time, it begins with a dream, as it does for everyone in the village. No one dreams in Beacon, until the Hunt.

Lydia wakes one morning with sweat beading her forehead, gasping, her sex aching in arousal, and her hands reaching for something, someone but there only stands the village Shaman. The hag’s face is etched deep in wrinkles and she smiles at Lydia.

“It is time, _Maighdean_.” The crow on her shoulder caws in excitement.

_No._

  
  
  


Lydia sits across the fire from the Shaman. She stares at the bones circling the Shaman, willing them to disappear. The old hands hover over each long bone. Femurs.

“Think back _Maighdean_ ,” the hag says. “Two legs, four? Hair, feathers? Scales?” As she talks she takes bones away from the group; she’s narrowing down, Lydia realises. The Shaman is searching her dream.

Creating a mental block is like snapping her fingers, and the Shaman reels back in surprise. They stare at each other for a long moment, one expression hard, the other comprehending.

“You don’t want to find them,” the Shaman states, knowing.

“I promised myself to the Whittemore Clan,” Lydia replies coldly. “I wasn’t expecting to dream.”

“ _Maighdean_ ,” the hag chides softly, voice sing-songing. “No one expects anything.” Lydia keeps her mouth shut, biting her lip so she doesn’t say anything venomous.

“Now,” the Shaman prompts. “What are they?”

Flippant, Lydia replies, “A wolf.” She was trying to lie, to find an exit, but as soon as she says it she knows it to be true. It leaves her tilted.

The Shaman's face becomes angry. “If you’re not going to take the Hunt seriously you may as well leave. There are no wolves on the Isles.”

“It was a wolf,” she says as she stands. Lydia moves around the fire to the discarded pile of bones and takes the oldest bone in her hand. After a moment, she tosses it in the fire and walks out of the hut without looking back.

The Shaman watches the bone cracks, hears an echo of a howl.

The fire turns blue.

  
  
  


She leaves on horse without saying goodbye to her friends and once-betrothed, but she notices the falcon following her for miles. Lydia, choking back tears, halts her horse. The falcon lands and it shifts, growing and walking forward on two human legs, naked.

“Never go without saying goodbye,” Allison says, reaching up to hug her.

“I’m scared,” she admits.

Allison smiles. “So was Scott.” Lydia can believe that.

“Were you?”

“Of course,” she says. “We’re all scared. We’re all alone until we dream.”

  
  
  


Day sixteen and Lydia wonders if she’s headed in the wrong direction. The dreams have gotten more vivid, though, and she wakes each morning with ghosts on her skin, between her legs, nipples hard and aching for touch. All Lydia needs is to thrust two fingers in her, rub her swollen clit fast, and let her hips rock into the motion to find relief.

She lies on her mat and stares at the treetops, listening to the river along side her. It tells her she needs to continue; they’re trying to find her, too.

  
  
  


_Strong hands pin hers above her head. She arches into the body above, feels the flat plains of his chest, the hair there tickling her breasts. They’re gasping, rocking together for completion. His cock is hot, sliding wetly against her sex, against her clit where she wants it most._

_His mouth brushes her ear. “I feel you. You’re so close.”_

_Lydia nods, because she is- she’s on the edge, she wants to come_ so bad _by his cock, his hands, anything, as long as she’s finally coming in her dreams with him. She wants him. She doesn’t care if its the loneliness talking, she_ wants _._

 _“Its not,” he rasps. She feels stubble of beard on her cheek as he speaks. “I want you. You were made for me. I was made for you. We_ belong _, sweetheart. You’re the fire that lit my spark, as much as I lit yours.”_

_“Please,” Lydia cries. “I want to come...”_

_“You’re so close. Almost, sweetheart. Almost.”_

  
  
Its noon when Lydia realises the stalking predator from the other side of the river. She searches the trees carefully until she spots bright blue eyes watching her unblinkingly. Lydia inclines her head slightly; _Hello there, I see you_ , and then he disappears.

She quickly unpacks the bow and swings the quiver over her shoulder, mounting her horse practically in the same movement. Lydia arms herself and takes the horse into a gallop, searching around until she sees the wolf break from the growth and bound himself after her.

He’s chasing her. She swivels in her saddle, aiming with her bow. Lydia is not an archer, and she misses without even trying. He knows it. The Hunt isn’t meant to be bloody.

Afterwhile, when he seems to tire from dodging and running, Lydia dismounts and takes to jogging along the river, and too soon she hears the four-count tempo running close behind her, gaining.

“You’re not,” Lydia pants, warning, “fucking me...as a wolf!”

An arm wraps around her waist unexpectedly, Lydia yelping in surprise, and the pair of them go tumbling down; he’s shields her from the rough ground when they skid across it. Lydia blinks and looks up at him for the first time, and he smiles down at her.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispers in the voice that haunted her dreams for a near month, lips quirked in a grin. His eyes are sky colored, half-lidded in a lazy way, and he does have a short stubble along his chin and upper lip.

“Hi,” Lydia replies back, equally soft, yet mostly still stunned. “What’s your name?” she asks because she can’t think of much else; she’s a brilliant girl, yet she’s lost for words.

“Peter,” he says with a laugh. “And you?”

“Lydia.”

His smile widens. “Well, Lydia. May I be presumptuous and kiss you?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” she says, a hint of snark, because _oh_ , she can tell from his careful speech and tick of the eyebrow as he assesses her that Peter’s very intelligent himself, and she thinks, _won’t you be fun._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hail from this [tumblr~](http://www.iblameitonmyadhd.tumblr.com)


End file.
